Free Devil Riders: A Biker Erotic Romance by A. L. Summers Page A

played there for about a year, until the holidays just past, as a matter of fact, when they fired me over a scandal.
     
    The orchestra was spotlighting the music of Vince Guaraldi and I was front and center, my first time as the featured performer. After one Friday night show and two shows each the next Saturday and Sunday, I suddenly found myself the new toast of the town. I still have the very complimentary review I clipped from the newspaper. Things were looking up, at least until I bashed the conductor over the head with a music stand.
     
    I’d been warned early on not to let myself get caught alone with Mitchell Farinni. But when he asked me to his office to “discuss my performance” after the last show on Sunday, I was so jazzed from my performance that the warning didn’t even cross my mind. When he wouldn’t take no for an answer and got a little too grabby, I whacked him with the closest thing I could get my hands on: a music stand. The next day, I was called into the President's office and summarily expelled. The entire time I begged and threatened, Farinni sat there with a small bandage on his head and a knowing smile on his face. The smug bastard.
     
    I stormed out of the President’s office with vengeance on my mind, but in the end I couldn’t find even one woman willing to come forward and stand up to Farinni. So now I’m right back where I started, playing gigs where I can and working a register at the grocery store to make ends meet. At least now I have a steady gig, playing seven to midnight Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday and seven until two Friday and Saturday. All part of Tango’s plan to “give The Joint some class,” as he said when he hired me.
     
    I’m just finishing my tale of woe when I see the man I’d noticed earlier—the quiet Hell’s Angel wannabe—kick a chair out from under his feet and saunter in my direction.
     
    “That was some bitch-slap you put on the fiddle player,” the man says as he coasts to a stop between me and Rudy, ignoring Rudy like he didn’t exist. The man is large, with narrow hips and a muscular upper body that his leather jacket can’t completely hide. I can’t put my finger on the reason why, but the man radiates a certain dangerous aura that makes me slightly nervous. Suddenly I am very glad to have Rudy and Stockton near.
     
    “Yes, well…” I begin, but grind to a halt, unsure what to say and hoping that I hadn’t screwed up this steady paycheck with my little stunt.
     
    “He deserved it,” the man continues. “If he‘d pulled that shit on me I’d have kicked his fucking ass.”
     
    Although his words are supportive, his tone puts me on edge and makes me nervous. “Yes, well, uh, thank you Mr.…?” I begin, trying to hurry him on his way.
     
    “Grieg. Charlie Grieg.”
     
    “Yes, well, thank you, Mr. Grieg.”
     
    “Hey, Chuck, you should watch your language in front of a lady,” Rudy says firmly, putting a hand on Grieg’s shoulder.
     
    Grieg doesn’t even move his eyes from me. “If you want to play that bass again, I suggest you remove your hand,” Grieg says. His voice is calm but the threat is clearly heard. The moment Rudy removes his hand, Grieg gives me a small smile. “I’ll be seeing you around, Fingers ,” he says as he casually moves back to his table.
     
    As Grieg walks away I see a hawk embroidered on the back of his jacket, an oil derrick clutched in one claw, a barrel in the other.
     
    “What an asshole,” Rudy mutters as Bobbi bounces up to take another round of orders.
     
    “I see you met Charlie,” Bobbi says, all flirt and bubbles.
     
    “Yeah. What’s his story?” I ask. I’m only on my fourth night at The Joint, but I would’ve remember him if I’d seen him before.
     
    “He’s a regular,” Bobbi explains. “Him and his crew come in nearly every Friday and Saturday.”
     
    “They look like Hell’s Angels with better haircuts,” I observe snarkily.
     
    Bobbi giggles.